Keg In The Closet
by Akiko Keeper of Sheep
Summary: or: Five Time Mike Was Unfortunately Drunk, And One Time He Was Unfortunately Sober. Modern day AU, Dolenzsmith, written for Plus2-Minus1-Brilliance.
1. Hurricane

Keg In The Closet

or

Five Times Mike Was Unfortunately Drunk, And One Time He Was Unfortunately Sober

:::  
by: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

Part One: Hurricane

The very first time Micky ever saw Mike drunk was the night they met. It was honestly one of the best nights of Micky's life, and one of the worst, and all because of one doe-eyed Texan made almost entirely of legs and snark.

It was a hot night in Malibu, sticky and claustrophobic, and Micky's hair went very quickly from lush curls to outrageous frizz. He didn't really care. People would kill to run their hands through it either way, he reminded himself with a roll of his eyes.

The club was packed, as it always tended to be on a Friday night, wall-to-wall leather and fishnet and stringy neon hair. Glassy eyes and awkward piercings blurred by him, full of the gleam of strobe lights and the promise of satiation. It was here, in the middle of the writhing, flailing amalgam of the dregs of the city that Micky could see best that humans were really just animals underneath it all.

He only hated crowds most of the time - when he was part of them, shunted around in the roiling surf of bodies, sucked into the undertow and drowned in the noise and the stink of sweat and sex. It was so anonymous, being part of the crowd, one face amongst far too many faces, unseen and immemorable.

When he was in front of a crowd, though…oh. Oh, it was the greatest feeling, better than any pill he'd ever popped, any shot he'd ever done, any sex he'd ever had. It was the highest high he'd ever known, and he was definitely an addict. It was the best of drugs, the chemical he'd gladly given up all other chemicals for, because it wasn't as enthralling with his senses dulled by something so plebeian as LSD.

That was why, when he first met Mike in The Hurricane on that muggy August night, he was stone-cold sober.

It was only a half hour after he'd arrived, and he'd looked up from his contemplation of the multicolored lights playing in his glass of water and spied a dance platform being vacated. He didn't bother covering the glass with a coaster - he wouldn't be back.

The man policing the platform grinned when he approached. "Figured you'd be here sooner or later, Dolenz."

"Aw, you know me so well, Kev," Micky purred, dragging his fingers down the bouncer's arm flirtatiously as he passed.

He only jumped a bit when his bottom was goosed. "Not nearly so well as I'd like, honey."

Micky only smirked, licking his lips as he climbed easily onto the platform and, closing his eyes, started to dance.

The rush was incredible - it buzzed in his blood, fizzing and sparking like his veins were Tesla coils. He could feel the eyes of the dull, slow masses on him, tracking over every inch of him. Oh, the power of it!

Micky reached out with his movements and grabbed hold of every one of them, making them watch him, making them want him, making them feel. The pulsing beat of the standard club music pounded behind his eyes, his breath coming in short, heated gasps as he twisted and gyrated and drew the whole stupid lot of them in. At that moment, to those people, he was the center of attention, the center of their world.

Daring to open his eyes, Micky licked his lips and grinned. He ran his hands up his chest and through his damp curls, and he could see the crowd's thoughts, see them imagining their own hands on him, and he sneered inside. He was untouchable then, a gleaming idol clad in a fiery rainbow of lights, rippling across his face like gemstones. He was above them, beyond them, separate and ethereal. He was more than human there, on that sticky platform. He was a god.

Ebony and ivory caught his attention. It wasn't surprising - in the frothing sea of leather and neon and glinting silver, the newcomer was like ink as he slipped through the flailing bodies with a slight weave to his gait that told Micky the man was already on his way to being incredibly drunk. Micky's eyes followed him, intrigued despite himself. Something about this person arrested the dancing man.

Was it his clothes, the dark, criminally-tight jeans that made his legs seem a mile long, the plain black button-down with the rolled-up sleeves? So unremarkable, designed to blend in, except here the only way the blend in was to stand out.

Or maybe it was his looks - soft, dark waves of hair and pale, fine features that gave him the appearance of having been carved out of marble. He had such full lips, pink and plump and perfect for nibbling on. When he'd downed a couple of shots (such long, lovely fingers, Micky noticed, tracing the little glasses delicately) and turned around, Micky's gaze was immediately drawn to the stranger's eyes.

They were ridiculously pretty. Really, Micky thought as he tilted his head, absently slipping a finger into his mouth and pulling it back out slowly to the delight of the crowd, was it even legal to have such big, dark, mesmerizing eyes? They flashed with intelligence and the slight haze of someone three sheets to the wind. Drunk as the man probably was, he was regarding the club-goers with a sharp, analytical gaze. The gaze of a hunter on the prowl. Micky wondered what it would be like to have those eyes on him.

There, that was it, wasn't it? In the middle of a torrent of admirers, aglow with vibrant lights and sexual energy, working such addictive magic on everyone in the room, Micky had the eyes of the entire club on him, except this one man. And that…that was unacceptable. So, he did what any attention-whore would, and he stripped off his shirt and threw it into the crowd.

He figured it wouldn't be too long before an employee made him get down and retrieve his clothing - despite the nature of the establishment, there were some rules - but he didn't need more than a few moments.

Sure enough, the sudden roar of the crowd drew the newcomer's attention. He lifted his head and looked at Micky.

Everything seemed suddenly slowed down and silent, as though underwater, and Micky's universe tilted on its ear.

It was so good it was almost painful, feeling that gaze move over him from head to toe, as heady and arousing as if it were those pale, perfect hands touching him. Pretty lips parted, a sweet flush spread over the stranger's cheekbones like a splash of rose wine. Micky felt his own cheeks heat up, something that hadn't happened in a very long time, and he felt suddenly hesitant and awkward.

Not one to let sudden shyness (however strange) deter him, Micky sucked his bottom lip in and bit down gently, letting it slip between his teeth slowly as he drifted his fingers down to the waist of his leather trousers. The stranger shifted in his seat, seemingly unable to decide whether to stare at Micky's mouth or his wandering hands. At the sight of the tip of the man's pink tongue darting out to wet his lips, Micky felt his already-too-tight pants getting that much tighter.

Teasingly, Micky ran his thumbs under his waistband, then down his thighs, pivoting on the spot to run them up over his bottom. Craning his neck, he peeked back at the man in black, winked, and gave his butt a smack. He was rewarded with narrow-eyed look and very obvious evidence that his arousal was mutual as the man's long legs parted a bit more.

He took it still further, reclining on the platform and arching his back, thrusting his hips into the air, his eyes never leaving his new friend's. In response, a wicked grin stretched across the stranger's face, and he leaned back against the bar, tilting his head back and exposing his milk-white throat, and let his legs fall even further apart.

Micky groaned out loud and rolled over, crawling to the edge of the platform and sliding off shakily. Electric sex was crackling in his bones deliciously, making him shiver and flex. The grasping of hands at his body didn't even slow him down as he slunk over to the bar, swaying his hips in a way he knew to be sinfully tantalizing. He didn't stop until he was positioned between his new friend's' thighs, only an inch from bringing their bodies together.

Leaning forward, he braced his hands on the bar behind the man and let his lips barely brush that smooth, ivory throat. Trailing his way up to the stranger's ear, he grazed the lobe with his teeth gently.

"Hey there, honey - looking for a sweet California welcome?"

"Something like that," Tall, Dark, and Handsome drawled in a sweet tenor that had Micky's insides quivering. Lord, but he was a sucker for an accent.

The man had a voice like honey, golden and smooth and a little smoky, and his breath was warm against Micky's cheek and smelled strongly of cheapwhiskey.

"Hmm, what a coincidence," Micky purred, lifting one hand from the bar to slip it under the collar of the man's shirt, pressing his palm the the side of his neck and reveling in the fluttering pulse he felt there. He nipped a bit harder at his friend's ear and smiled when the man gasped. "I'm the welcoming committee."

There were a few clumsy, too-slow minutes between yanking Cowboy off of his bar stool and making through the crowd to the men's room, and it gave Micky far too much time with which to contemplate the way Cowboy's strong, calloused fingers threaded through his so perfectly, the way their palms pressed together in a way that made Micky's heart do stupid, fluttery things.

He didn't let go, though, not even when they stumbled into the handicap stall and Cowboy shoved him up against the door, his free hand slamming into the thin barrier next to Micky's head with startling force. There was no fear, though - those big, soft eyes were neither angry nor malicious, and when Cowboy brought their lips together, it was almost disturbingly gentle.

The slow sweetness didn't last long, though, escalating quickly into a searing intensity that left Micky feeling quivery and boneless, as though they'd already had sex. Cowboy leaned against him, pushing him into the door, grinding against him instinctively.

The kiss was hot and slick and tasted of Jim Beam and jalapenos. It was a little clumsy, not hesitant so much as inexperienced, and Micky's heart fluttered again.

"Do this a lot?" he asked breathlessly when Cowboy released his tongue in favor of attacking his neck. He felt the tall man's lips twitch into a smile against his skin as he ran his hands up underneath Cowboy's shirt to grip his waist.

"Not exactly," was the slurred answer.

"Never would have guessed."

A quiet chuckle was his only response, and he let his hands slide down until he had two palms full of gloriously shapely Texan ass.

It was then, unfortunately, that the owner of said ass, forehead still pressed against Micky's neck, started snoring.

Micky made a strangled sound as his knees wobbled, his grip on Cowboy's backside the only thing keeping the lithe man from sliding to the dirty linoleum floor.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," the conscious one of the pair hissed, torn between being furious and being morbidly amused.

After a long moment, Micky managed to shift his grip on the guy, hauling one arm up over his shoulder and shuffling to the door to find a phone.

From the moment he shut the cab door on the drunkenly-slumbering Cowboy to the moment he'd meet that same pair of criminally-beautiful eyes across a dance floor at a very different venue, two weeks would go by. Micky filled those weeks with the usual debauchery, but somewhere in the back of his mind, there was the feel of those hands, the taste of whiskey and heat, and a honey-smoke drawl. There was a craving, too, albeit a weak one, filling his gut.

When he did approach Mike again, this time in a brightly-lit teen hangout where Micky and Peter had been playing twice a week, a flirty smile plastered on his face, the Texan was puzzled.

"Have we met?"

"Er…" Micky leaned back a bit, frowning. Surely his Cowboy hadn't been so drunk he'd forgotten…surely…

Mike's eyes were suddenly wary, and he crossed his arms. "Where did you meet me," he asked with an iron tone.

This was not the reaction he'd been hoping for. This was a defensive reaction, the attitude of a man who was worried about what he might have said…or done. The attitude, Micky suddenly realized, of a man who wasn't out, and probably hadn't even fully accepted himself yet.

Fucking fuck, Micky thought to himself as he forced a neutral expression onto his face. "Oh, we met outside some club or other. You were pretty plastered - conked out right onto me, almost knocked me over. I called you a cab," he finished, breathing a mental sigh of relief when Mike relaxed.

It wouldn't be terribly long into their friendship that Mike would realize that Micky's sexuality was about as straight as his hair, but he never seemed to suspect that their first forgotten meeting was anything more than what Micky had claimed. And Micky never, ever told him.

A/N - Written for my sister, to help her combat her isolation and boredom as she waits out Frankenstorm in NC. It is a modern-day AU, and is a fanfic of the series, not RPF, as per usual for me. Part 1/6.

Songs: Circus [Britney Spears], Hurricane [Panic! at the Disco], S&M [Rihanna]


	2. Take Your Whiskey Home

Keg In The Closet

or

Five Times Mike Was Unfortunately Drunk, And One Time He Was Unfortunately Sober

:::

by: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

:::::

Part Two: Take Your Whiskey Home

When Mike told Micky and Peter that he was bringing a friend over to hang out with them, Micky hadn't really expected the sudden surge of jealousy that he experienced.

Maybe it was because Mike had admitted (after a very exhilarating escape from a pair of chain-wielding gang members that Peter had inadvertently insulted) that Peter and Micky were his only friends, and, in fact, his very first friends. Micky had liked that, the feeling of special-ness he got from being one of the first people out of all the people Mike had ever met to get close to him.

Maybe it was because Mike had given them one of his slow, brilliant smiles when he talked about his new friend, who had a really good voice (apparently) and could play a variety of instruments (_apparently_). One of those smiles that Micky had thought were only for him. Oh, sure, he smiled at Peter, too, a lazy sort of indulgent smile like one gave an adorable kitten (one Micky was pretty sure he sported himself around the blonde). But that smile, the one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle up, that made Mike look so sweet and at ease, that was supposed to be _Micky's _smile, and he didn't much like sharing it with some stranger.

It was stupid, he supposed, to think that he was somehow _special_ to the towering Texan. It's not like they'd had anything going aside from a drunken fumble in a public toilet, and the stupid jerk didn't even remember that. Not to mention, even if he had remembered it wouldn't have done Micky much good - he was so far in the closet he might as well have made Narnia his mailing address. Micky had the sneaking suspicion that, had Mike remembered their fling at all, he wouldn't have let Micky get so close to him.

So he didn't fly into a rabid, jealous rage and stuff Mike into his bedroom closet (which probably would have made the Texan feel right at home) and never ever let him out again. Instead, Micky had grinned and nodded and even taken a bit of extra cash out of the Treat Jar to purchase some imported sausages and fresh tomatoes for breakfast the next day.

Peter's eyes had gone wide when he'd spotted Micky dipping a hand into the half-filled jar.

"Micky, we're not supposed to spend that until it's full! You said!"

Mike, who had been watching from the kitchen, raised a questioning eyebrow. Micky sighed.

He'd started the Treat Jar about a month after moving into the Pad with Peter. The blonde was absolutely hopeless at saving money, even for things he really wanted, because somewhere along the way, he'd spot a donation jar, or he'd run across a quarter machine, or maybe someone in the street would sell him a story about an aunt who needs an operation. Whatever the circumstances, any cut of their earnings Micky handed over to Peter were pretty much guaranteed to be in someone else's hands within twenty-four hours. He'd learned real quick that he needed to be the one to accept their pay and put it away.

He didn't want to try to teach Peter to get hard, to be selfish, because Peter's absolute inability to hold on to money was just a part of him, a part of his personality, and Micky really really didn't want Peter to change. He didn't want to baby Peter, either, or not allow him any control over his own finances, because Peter was an adult, and there might come a time when he needed to be able to take care of himself again, and Micky wanted him to be a great deal more successful at it than he'd been in the years before they'd met.

So, he'd emptied out their economy-sized pickle jar and taped a sign reading 'Treat Jar: Feed Me, Seymour' on the side. He'd explained to Peter that this was for special things, like steaks from the supermarket or a bag of sweets or jeans that didn't come from a thrift store. He'd set down The Rules - you could put anything you wanted into the Treat Jar, as many pennies, quarters, dollars as you liked, but once it went in, it didn't come out again until the jar was full, and anything bought with Treat Jar Money needed to be agreed upon by both of them. Then he left Peter to it.

It was incredibly successful. Peter put all his spare change in it (except a few quarters, in case he ran across a quarter machine), and sometimes dropped in a dollar or two when they'd had a good gig. It filled up fairly quickly, and added up to a decent amount of money, and Micky would, every once in a while, pat himself on the back for a job well done. And if he tended to agree with whatever crazy thing Peter wanted to buy with the Treat Jar Money, well, who was to know?

He'd explained the Treat Jar to Mike, with Peter nodding emphatically behind him and frowning disapprovingly at Micky when he'd mentioned the rules. Mike had stared hard at him for an uncomfortably long moment, eyes glimmering thoughtfully. There was something warm about the gaze, and it had left Micky feeling, once again, oddly flushed. He felt like that a lot around Mike, though, so he'd brushed it off as usual.

With a promise to supply the liquor, the guitarist had left, and Micky had been left with a grumpy Peter Tork to deal with.

"That's supposed to be for special things, Micky. You said...you said we weren't supposed to take anything out," Peter huffed, crossing his arms. "You said it was important."

"This is important, too, Pete," Micky explained, biting his lip and trying to avoid the wounded hazel eyes of his best friend. "This guy is Mike's friend, we should be nice."

"But...but nice like we smile nicely and say nice things and make nice snacks," Peter pouted, "not nice like we break our nice Treat Jar Rules and buy nice things before we're supposed to!"

Micky couldn't help but grin a little. "It's okay to break rules sometimes, Peter. Just...only once or twice. So I'm breaking it once, and you can break it once, and then we'll be even, okay?"

"No," his roommate said firmly, lower lip jutting out as he tried to make what he thought was a determined face. Peter, bless him, was not very good at aggression, and he ended up looking like a twelve year old being denied dessert. "Micky, you said-"

"I know what I said, Peter," the drummer sighed, pocketing the money while Peter sputtered. "And I meant it. The rules are important, and I put them there for a reason, but..."

Shoulders slumped, Peter sighed despondently. "But you're the leader, and you made the rules, so I guess it's okay if-"

"No!" Micky cringed. "No, Pete, that's not how it works. We're a team, remember? And just because I make the rules, that doesn't mean I can break them whenever I want. It's just really important that I make this guy feel welcome, okay?"

"Because he's Mike's friend?" Peter's eyes were a lot more understanding than Micky would have liked.

"Yeah," Micky replied softly.

"You're jealous of him," the blonde said casually as he put the lid back on the Treat Jar.

Micky groaned. He hated it when Peter was perceptive, which was about ninety percent of the time. People could say what they liked about Peter Tork, but he was one of the most frighteningly empathic people Micky had ever met.

"I'm not jealous," he denied somewhat fruitlessly.

"Okay, Micky," was the reply, but it didn't make him feel any better.

As he was leaving, though, Peter reached out and hugged him tightly for a moment. "You're Mike's friend, too," he said.

"Yeah," Micky mumbled. That didn't make him feel any better, either.

Meeting Davy didn't do much to help. The guy was everything Mike had said he'd be - talented, witty, intelligent, and definitely possessing of the idea that he needed to compensate for his height by being all of those things, emphatically, at once.

He was also nice, which really put Micky off. He didn't seem to be able to not be nice, even to Micky, who was positive that his abrasiveness was showing on his face. He took notice of Peter's paintings without having them pointed out, and complimented each of them. He praised Micky on his progress fixing up the place, going so far as to call some of Micky's solutions 'genius'. He noted how 'original' Peter's French onion dip tasted (which was more than nice, it was downright ridiculous), and continued to sample it throughout the night. It was unreal, but Davy was so forthright about it, so quiet and...and English about it, Micky couldn't help but feel it was sincere. That alone was suspicious enough.

To make matters worse, the moment Davy had walked in, Micky had been on edge. It wasn't a jealous sort of on-edge, or a nobody-is-that-nice on-edge. It was an old on-edge, old and yet familiar. It was warning bells and flashing lights and gut instinct.

Davy was, for some reason, throwing off very familiar vibes. They were world-weary vibes, the kind of vibes you got off of people who had spent too much time in the wrong places, doing the wrong things around the wrong people. They were the kind of vibes Micky had picked up from the people he'd fallen in with after leaving home.

They were the kind of vibes Micky knew he threw off himself.

Something about Davy reminded Micky of himself, and that was more than enough of a reason to not trust him - no one in their right mind should trust someone like Micky.

He played nice, though, because Davy seemed like a genuinely good person. And, Micky reminded himself, Mike liked him, and Mike was not an easy person to befriend. That alone spoke volumes for Davy's character. It wasn't an airtight defense of his sainthood, but it was enough to make Micky give him a chance.

The whiskey helped. By the time they were halfway through the bottle, Micky and Davy were giggling together on the couch like schoolgirls.

"So...so what happened to the biker?"

Micky snorted, passing the whiskey bottle back to Davy. "Oh, he ran out after her, and - get this - tried to convince her that it was so dark in the club that he'd though I was her," he finished, cackling into his knees as he doubled over in his seat, clapping his hands over his curls.

Davy practically howled. "You're joking," he yelped, throwing an arm around Peter, who was sat fairly uncomfortably between them.

"Oh, man," the drummer wheezed, "I wish I was."

"I can see his point," Davy chuckled, taking a swig from the bottle and passing it to Mike. "I mean, in the right light, you'd totally look like...like a six-blonde-tall tits model with a fake bikini." Frowning, Davy tilted his head. "No..."

"Yeah, people tell me that all the time."

Davy leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and peered at Micky a bit hazily. "I'd like to ask you a personal question, now, Micky," he slurred. "And I just want you to know that...that..."

"Oh, sure, babe, ask away." Waving his arm in a large arc (and giving Peter a consoling pat on the head when he accidentally whacked him in the ear), Micky flopped backwards and watched as Davy tried to collect his thoughts.

"I mean, you're really a cool sort of guy, Mickal...Micky. Kind of a twat, you know, but generally cool."

"Aw, thanks, Davy. That's nice of you to say. You're so nice. Like...like a nice...a nice person."

"No," Davy said sadly, shaking his head. "No, I'm a twat, too, I think. I know. Just a big twat, cuz it shouldn't matter, but it does, and I just gotta know, man."

"Okay."

"Are you gay?"

"Oh, no, of course not," Micky snorted. "I'm not specific enough about who I have sex with to be gay. I mean, so long as it's good, who cares who it's with?" He reached out to give Mike a few pats on the back as the guitarist tried to exhale the whiskey he'd aspirated for reasons unknown.

"Oh," Davy said quietly, a puzzled frown spread across his face. "Well...that's okay, then, I guess."

"Is it?" Micky snarked, flicking his fingers at the smaller man. "What a relief, cuz, y'know, I was worried for a second that my worth as a human being hinged on my sexuality."

Davy scowled. "Yeah, see, when I said 'kind of a twat', that's what I meant. I wasn't saying you were...were...you...fuck you, man."

"Oh, will you?" Micky lunged over Peter's lap and groped wildly at the air towards Davy.

"Fuck off, you...fucker," Davy snickered, pushing Micky's face away.

Micky let him, falling back until he was sprawled across the couch, his feet tucked up under Peter's thigh, and his head resting in Mike's lap.

Mike blinked down at him, flush with alcohol, his lips parted minutely in surprise.

"Hiiiii," Micky sang, reaching up to pat Mike on the cheek.

"Hi," Mike replied quietly, balancing the whiskey bottle on the arm of the couch and letting his fingers trace down the neck of the bottle absently.

Whatever witty reply Micky's intoxicated mind would have come up with next was interrupted when Peter reached down and grabbed his foot, tapping his fingertips lightly on his arch, making him squeal and tumble straight off the couch.

The discussion was almost entirely forgotten for the next few hours as the four of them lounged about, growing progressively drunker and much less intelligible.

At some point, Davy had migrated to a position underneath the dining room table, and was practically devouring the suspicious dip, Peter watching between his legs from his precarious perch on the edge of the table, his face a mixture of glee and horror.

Micky was watching with a similar expression (though with a good bit more horror than glee) through the window as he leaned back against the balcony railing when Mike joined him, stumbling over the tennis racket Micky had nailed to the deck to cover a hole.

"Hey there, darlin'," the taller man drawled low, the words rumbling together like thunder.

Micky shivered (which was dumb of him, because it was eighty degrees out) and scootched over when Mike slumped beside him, the rotting railing shuddering in an unsettling way. Micky made a mental note to take a look at it when he was less inebriated - the last thing he needed was Peter taking a header off the balcony.

"He's a decent guy, y'know," Mike said softly, staring out at the moonlit surf. The silvery light was splashed across his face, and he glowed, fucking glowed.

Micky took a deep breath of the salty air, and tore his eyes away. Not fucking fair, the way Mike always looked so...ethereal? Like he was made of moonlight or something. Micky hated it, hated how giddy and breathless and uncontrolled Mike made him feel. He felt twelve, and awkward, and shy, and a little bit ugly next to Mike, which was an unfamiliar feeling to Micky, and definitely unwanted.

Somewhere along the way, he'd stopped just constantly craving Mike's touch, and started craving Mike, which was a great deal scarier and probably even more likely to get him punched in the face. He hadn't forgotten the hostile look in Mike's eyes when he'd suspected (quite rightly) that their first meeting had been somewhat...intimate. He didn't like how cornered Mike had looked then, and he liked it even less thinking back, but he knew he couldn't do anything about it. People couldn't be pushed into coming out, even to themselves. Micky would just have to be patient.

"I'm not gay," Mike murmured, as though he'd heard Micky's thoughts.

Micky regarded him with serious eyes, wishing he could judge an embroidered-shirt-sparkly-boot-wearing, girly-hair-product-using, plum-lipped, pretty book by it's cover. It would make life much easier if people's insides reflected their outsides, he mused, and there would be no sexuality-denial for Mike.

But he couldn't, because people were infinitely more complicated than what they wore or how they styled their hair, and Micky was fucked up enough himself to be patient with other people's complicatedness. He didn't have to like it, of course, but damn it, he wasn't going to ruin what he and Mike had going just because he had some stupid kid crush on the guy.

So, instead of being a snarky asshole, Micky smiled and replied, "I know, Mike."

"Not even a little bit gay," the taller of the two lisped, leaning much closer to Micky than the drummer was comfortable with. "Not even a little. I fuck girls. I love to fuck girls."

Micky's stomach twisted a bit at the thought of Mike fucking anyone. He knew the Texan must go out, and probably had plenty of sex (a man that beautiful did not go without offers for long), but that didn't mean Micky wanted to know about it.

"And just because I like to fuck them up the ass, it don't mean I'm a faggot," Mike continued, oblivious to the expression on Micky's face.

"'Course not," the smaller man rasped, wishing Mike would just shut up. His fairy godmother must have been on vacation, though, because the drunken idiot just kept going.

"Never ever ever been gay," he repeated firmly, "'cept when I'm drunk."

Micky let his eyes slid shut. It just kept getting worse, didn't it? Story of his fucking life.

"An' I'm drunk now," Mike was saying, suddenly pressed up against Micky's side, lips brushing his ear, and Micky's heart gave a startled lurch. "I'm tanked and you're kinda gay, which ain't a bad combination, huh, darlin'?"

Oh, God, Jesus, fuck, Micky thought frantically, leaning sideways and trying to wriggle politely out of Mike's long, lean arms to no avail. It seemed like every time he wormed his way free, there were arms around him again, hands in his back pockets and trailing up his shirt and Jesus tits was Mike part squid or something - where the everloving fuck were all of these limbs coming from?!

"Mike, come on, you're really drunk, and...and..." and I don't have the willpower to not take advantage of your fine Texan ass, he finished in his head, twisting and craning his neck to avoid Mike's attempt at a sneaky kiss. Warm, damp lips pressed against Micky's throat, and suddenly the front of his jeans was much too tight. "Oh, God," he breathed as his lanky friend pushed him up against the creaking railing, pressing as close to him as he could.

"Mmm...you always smell so good, Mick. Taste good, too," Mike purred, nipping at Micky's earlobe.

"Ahhhhahaha, yes, okay, yummy Micky, right," the quivering drummer giggled nervously, pressing his palms to Mike's chest and willing himself to push. "C'mon, Mike, cut it out. I'm not...I'm sober enough for this."

He'd meant 'I'm not in a balanced enough state of mind to turn you down for your own good.' What Mike apparently heard was 'you are taking advantage of my poor, unwilling body please stop now.' He wrenched himself away, pale and horrified, face twisted regretfully in the moonlight.

"God, Mick, m'sorry. Sorry. I thought...sorry. Don't be mad, please."

Trembling, Micky cringed and waved his hands in front of him. "No, Mike, I'm not mad. I just mean...look, I'd love to have sex with you, okay? Seriously. Just...tomorrow, okay?"

"Mmm..." Mike pursed his lips thoughtfully, shoulders slumped in relief...or disappointment? "Will I still be drunk tomorrow?"

"Sure."

"Okay, then." And the Texan wandered back to where Peter was daring Davy, who was apparently part goat, to eat random questionable items out of their refrigerator, leaving Micky shivering and tingling and frustrated and ultimately alone.

Mike, of course, did not remember any of it the next day. Micky felt a pattern beginning to emerge, and he really really hoped that, for his own sanity, Mike didn't make a habit of getting drunk, because he wasn't sure how much more of that kind of treatment he could take.

:::

A/N - Well, that's that done, then. Cheers, folks.

In the next chapter, Mike gets not only drunk, but Gay Drunk, again, and when he propositions Micky this time, they're not alone...

Songs used: Toxic [Britney Spears], Bite Hard [Franz Ferdinand], Right Round [Flo Rida]


	3. Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off

Keg In The Closet

or

Five Times Mike Was Unfortunately Drunk, And One Time He Was Unfortunately Sober

:::  
by: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

Part Three: Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off

It had been some time later, a couple of days or so after Davy and Mike had moved in to help take the pressure of rent payments off of Micky, that the drummer had accidentally started a band.

Peter, as Micky knew well, was an excellent guitarist, bassist, and (although Peter didn't know Micky knew) pianist. Mike played, as well, and was actually very skilled (though not as freakishly-naturally as Peter). He sang, which Micky loved and hated, because he always got the worst kinds of flutterings whenever Mike did so. And everyone had heard Davy sing - the guy was always grooving around the Pad like his whole life was a musical number. None of them, though, knew about Micky.

There was a reason for that - Micky didn't want them to know. They knew he was a passable drummer - he'd been backing Peter up clumsily when Mike had first caught their gig - but he had tucked his drums away to make room in the spare bedroom for Davy and Peter, and he definitely didn't sing around the guys. Somewhere in the back of his mind, there was a niggling thought, angry words in his father's voice, reminding him that music didn't make money. It had been a sticking point in their relationship, and had ultimately been what made Micky leave home.

He hadn't been on the street long before he'd discovered that his father was right. Music didn't feed him, didn't keep shoes on his feet and a roof over his head, and those had quickly become priorities in his life. So he'd taken all those wants and dreams and plans, the visions of stadiums and crowds and lights, taken the love and the music, and he'd folded them up neatly and tucked them away at the back of his mind where they would gather dust, and he did his best to forget about them entirely.

He hadn't minded playing with Peter a couple of times a week - it didn't require a lot of practice, didn't detract from whatever other odd jobs he'd managed to pick up. It was harmless, like a hobby or something. It wasn't serious, so it wasn't dangerous. This, though, this thing that was starting between his three roommates...this was dangerous.

He didn't want to round out their blossoming group, he told himself when he heard Mike trying to teach Peter to harmonize. He didn't want to play, because he didn't want to starve, and he could already see the other three members of the household forgetting all about getting steady, paying jobs. He didn't want to starve, and he especially didn't want to see his friends starve, so at least one of them had to be practical.

Honestly, if anyone had asked, he would have put his money on Mike being the sensible one. The Texan fairly breathed common sense, so it had come as a surprise to Micky that his taller friend pretty much lost his mind when it came to music. Peter, of course, lived music. The idea of him giving it up actually gave Micky a physical sympathy pain. And Davy, well...Davy had turned out to be quite like Micky - he thrived in the spotlight, blossomed when people's eyes were on him. He needed that admiration, that love, like most people needed air. Micky supposed that, to an extent, they were all that kind of attention-whore. Davy, though, in true Davy style, not only acknowledged that part of himself, he embraced it.

So Micky, perhaps the least eager of them to return to starving in a gutter for the sake of a childish dream, had decided quite firmly that he would have no part of it. Unfortunately, he'd forgotten to let everyone else know about that decision.

The catalyst, he supposed, was Davy overhearing him singing 'Dream On' in the shower.

He'd been hitting the high notes fairly well, scrubbing up a rather delicate bit of his anatomy, when the door had slammed open so forcefully that it bounced off the wall and nearly smacked the intruding Brit in the face. Micky hit a note he'd never reached before, hurling his bar of soap at Davy's face in shock. Luckily, his aim was fairly poor, and the Dove had sailed harmlessly over Davy's head, skidding across the hall.

"Jesus fuck, Jones," he screeched, reaching for the shower curtain to cover himself with. As his fingers met empty air, he remembered that they'd used it to cover up the gaping hole where a large windowpane had been, back before Mike had moved in and brought his football with him. Clearing his throat, he did his best to conceal the danglier bits of his anatomy with his hands and gesture for his towel at the same time.

Davy, seemingly oblivious to Micky's distress, walked right past the towel rack and stepped into the shower, standing far closer to Micky than the taller man would have been comfortable with even if he'd been clothed. "You can sing!"

"Uh..."

"You never said you could sing, Micky," Davy bubbled happily, bouncing a bit. "You can actually sing!"

"I...um..."

"This is fantastic! This is brilliant, absolutely brilliant!"

Right, Micky thought. Brilliantly awful.

"And you're a drummer, aren't you? Peter and Mike both say you can sort of play! Oh, this is perfect! Wait'll I tell Mike, we can start rehearsing tonight, and-"

"Davy. Shut up," Micky hissed, grabbing his friend by his shirtfront and shaking him a bit. "If you even think about breathing one word of this to anyone, especially Mike, I will gut you and strangle you to death with your own intestines."

Blinking up at him in an admittedly adorable fashion, Davy pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I think you might be overreacting a bit, there, Mick. Do you want to let go of my shirt, or do I have to start making you?"

Micky released him slowly, moving back until the shower spray separated them. The shower rack pressed against his shoulders, and the taps dug into the backs of his knees, but he needed some kind of distance from Davy before he murdered him.

"You can't tell anyone," Micky murmured, not liking how the words echoed so loudly. "You just can't, Davy. I can't join the band."

"Why not? Micky, did you hear yourself just now?" Davy waved his hands around, uncaring as he knocked several bottles of hygiene products off the windowsill. "You're really good, nearly as good as me, and you can drum!"

"You can drum," Micky muttered, grasping for Peter's loofah and trying to use that to cover himself. "I don't know why you don't just do it."

Davy flushed a bit, frowning. "Well...I kind of disappear behind the drums. Besides," he added, brightening, "I'm not very good at it - Peter says you're really coming along."

"Peter says his stuffed giraffe is a certified NASA astronaut," Micky replied tartly.

Huffing, Davy hopped out of the shower, grabbed Micky's towel, and skipped from the room with it. "Don't care what you say," he sang, "I'm telling Mike and you can't stop meeee!"

"Davy!"

Micky stood under the spray, staring out the wide-open door, with only a powder-blue shower puff to cover himself, and considered his options.

He could certainly leave the bathroom, hunt Davy down, and shove the loofah down his throat until he choked to death on it, but he was pretty sure Peter would be devastated - he'd bought the loofah with a bit of his Treat Jar money, and it was one of his favorite bathtime things. Also, he was kind of fond of Davy.

He could deny everything the Brit said, refute all of his claims, demonstrate terrible vocal abilities, and use every bit of guile in his arsenal to convince Mike he had no musical talent whatsoever. That didn't sit right with Micky, though, because it involved lying to Mike. That was a shady area, because if Mike found out, he would be disappointed in Micky. Mike valued honesty, exuded honesty, and he expected people to show him the courtesy of being honest with him. He expected it of everyone, including Micky, and he would be hurt if he ever knew that Micky had betrayed his trust. The last thing Micky wanted to do was hurt Mike.

THINGS (and it was always capitalized in Micky's head, and was a handy stand-in word for the somewhat less-truncated 'Circumstances Involving My Absolute And Total Inability To Not Fawn, Pine, Fanboy, Drool, Fantasize, And Otherwise Make A Fool Of Myself Over Robert Michael Nesmith') had not gotten less complicated following the addition of the Texan to their household. A lot of that had to do with their rooming situation - apparently, sharing a bedroom with the object of your absolute devotion was emotionally and mentally draining. Go figure.

There had been a moment, near the beginning of the talks, that Micky had thought the rooming situation could be worked out simply and without fuss. Boy, had he been wrong. Micky was a snorer, which Davy couldn't deal with. Peter tossed in his sleep, which Mike couldn't stand. And for some reason, Mike seemed to think that if Micky shared a room with Peter, they would wake up to the Pad burning down around them.

Micky took great offense to that last one - he and Peter had managed to live together for years before meeting Mike, and not once had the Pad actually and completely burned down. Micky was a lot of things - impatient, attention-seeking, selfish, manipulative, opinionated, and erratic came to mind - but he was never careless with Peter's safety, and he had really rather thought Mike would have known that.

In any case, he couldn't really give a good reason as to why he shouldn't be bunking with Mike (not without either hurting Mike's feelings or getting punched in the face), so he'd opted to not protest, and had settled in for an eternity of devastatingly painful longing and cold showers stretching into infinity.

Micky did not like to think about how pitifully, pathetically awful the thought of actually hurting Mike made him feel. He tried not to contemplate why it was that so much of what he did these days revolved around Mike's feelings. It made life very difficult (and wasn't his life already plenty difficult?), not in the least because he had never really thought of himself as being considerate of other people's emotions, and it would be no different in the case of Micky's Ambition To Not Waste Away In Poverty Like A Bum vs. The Band.

He really, really didn't want to think about how hurt Mike would be if he did admit to being able to sing, and still refused to be their fourth man.

All-in-all, this did not look like it was going to turn out to be a successful chapter in How To Not Be A Starving Musician: A Californian's Tale.

Sure enough, as soon as he'd managed to naked-tackle Davy to the floor and wrestle his towel away, Mike had wandered in. After a bit of an awkward pause, during which Micky had fumbled the towel awkwardly about his waist and Mike looked everywhere but at Micky, Davy let the circumstances of the entire encounter pour out.

As soon as the maraca-wielding spawn of Satan got to the bit where he'd discovered Micky could sing, Mike's sharp, dark gaze had zeroed in on the still-dripping drummer, narrowing thoughtfully as Davy continued to prattle on. Micky shivered, swallowing hard against the sudden anxiety he felt. Later, he would think back on his jumbled thoughts and try to smother himself with his pillow, but at the moment it was all he could do to just think them.

'Oh god he's looking at me fuck you Davy just fuck you and your stupid big mouth oh god why does he have to be looking at me I'm too naked for him to be looking fuck it's freezing who the fuck turned down the thermost- we don't have heat you doofus jesus tits Mike stop looking at me I'm skinny and gross and did he just say gig what no no NO-'

"What? No! I can't..." Micky swallowed again, feeling Mike's eyes burning into his brain. "I mean..."

"You can manage the drums well enough, Mick," the Texan murmured, arms crossed as he leaned against the counter in a much-too-sexy-to-be-legal pose. "The songs ain't hard to learn, mostly just ol' standards, and we won't make you sing all of 'em - Davy'll handle most of the vocals until we get you up to speed."

"But-"

"We could really use another bandmate," Mike added softly, and the years of resolve Micky had built up didn't even crumble - it was like they'd never existed at all.

"Okay," he said, the sound of the word echoing in his head, a head that felt suddenly empty of all the shouts of 'no don't can't won't'. In the silence that remained, he imagined he could hear the rusted creak of an old key turning in a disused lock, and he stumbled to his feet and up the stairs, tumbling back into the bathroom and slamming the door.

It all poured out as he slid down to sit in the tub, his knees drawn up under his chin. The longing, the love, the loss, and none of it to do with stupid Mike Nesmith. Need filled his body, clattering against his skull and sizzling along his nerve endings like hot grease. It hurt, hurt so beautifully, and he didn't even try to stop the ugly sobs that rattled his ribcage.

It had been so long, and so much of him had been hollowed out when he'd packed away all his dreams, and he hadn't realized, hadn't understood until now, just what he'd done, how much of himself he'd cut away for the sake of being realistic. Practicality had likely saved his life so many times in the backalleys of reality, but for what? So he could survive to work some dead-end job, live a long and healthy life of making-ends-meet and getting-by? That was a sorry life, indeed. Even the dancing, the sad addiciton that had first brought Micky and his Cowboy together, was a sorry consolation prize, a pale imitation of what he really needed. Why, why had he given it up?

The sound of the door opening and closing cut through the gross sounds of his sniveling, and Micky pressed his face against his knees, fisting his fingers into his hair and wishing he could just disappear. Then there was a warm hand at his back, stroking from the base of his neck down past his shoulderblades, then back up and repeating. It was a firm, assured touch, and it eased the angry, despairing tension from his body. Soon, his gut-wrenching sobs turned to hiccups and sniffles, and he let his arms drop to encircle his legs, daring a glance at his comforter.

Mike was watching him carefully, his pretty eyes so warm and understanding that Micky nearly burst into tears again. The taller man shifted in his seat on the edge of the tub, the forefinger of his free hand scratching at a chip in the acrylic. The fingers of his other hand were now closed gently around the nape of Micky's neck, kneading every-so-minutely.

"It's okay if you don't want to do this," Mike began, voice reverberating too-loud in the tiny room.

Micky cringed. "No," he rasped, rubbing at his eyes roughly with the heels of his hands. He sat back, pretending he didn't lean a bit into Mike's hand, and sorely regretting moving when the hand was removed with a final, barely-there squeeze. "No," he repeated firmly. "I want to."

It wasn't hard to make it sound sincere because it was. He really, truly wanted to be a part of this, wanted it so badly it ached. He was so tired of trying to be practical, so sick of feeling left out when his housemates huddled up for practices. He wanted the music, yes, more than anything, but he also wanted the band, this band. He wanted to be a part of what the guys were creating, because whether or not it was successful, it had the potential to be special. It would be music, sure, but more importantly, it would be them, making music together.

So he looked up at Mike, lovely, wonderful Mike, and he grinned. "We're gonna be great together," he said, and he didn't mean the two of them, but he couldn't pretend he didn't enjoy the way Mike's eyes flashed and his lips parted just slightly.

"Yeah," his Cowboy answered, warm and assured as his touch had been. "Great."

And it was. Oh, god, was it ever great. It was like a missing puzzle piece had slotted into place, and suddenly the picture made a weird kind of sense. Micky threw himself into it with a wild exuberance, because he had years of deprivation to make up for, after all.

If the others thought that he was a bit too enthusiastic, they said nothing. Sometimes, when he was being particularly passionate, he'd catch Mike looking at him, just the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. They were special, secret smiles, and these ones really were just for Micky. It was the best part of all of it, better than reclaiming his dreams, because he was making Mike happy, and god, wasn't that just wonderful?

Every rehearsal felt like a party. It was nothing like playing behind Peter, nothing like writhing on a platform for the slavering masses. It was better, sweeter, and Micky felt like he was sixteen again, so sure that he could survive off of music for the rest of his life.

His housemates had launched themselves in headfirst as well, as though they'd been waiting for Micky the whole time, and now they could really start to play. Ideas were thrown back and forth, tumbling along, propelled by drumrolls and guitar riffs and laughter. Great ideas, wonderful ideas that blossomed into songs, their songs. That gave Micky an especially warm feeling in the general vicinity of where he was sure his heart used to be. It was nearly as good as Mike's secret smiles.

And then there were gigs.

That first time - Jesus, he felt like a virgin about to get laid when he sat down behind the drum kit. It was stupid, of course, he'd been on stage all the time, and not very long ago, but this wasn't just helping out a friend with a bit of lackluster drumming. This was...this was real.

It felt like flying.

He'd think about it a lot in the years to come, that first time on stage with his band. He wouldn't think about the songs they did, or how well they did, or the people dancing just beyond the footlights. He would remember Davy's silly little improvised dance, and the way Peter just let go and became one with the music, and the way Mike would tilt his head back and look at Micky between songs and just smile.  
He ached afterwards, shoulders and biceps and hands. His cheeks hurt, too, because he hadn't stopped grinning the entire time, which had probably looked really stupid when Davy had sung 'Yesterday', but damned if he'd been able to stop. They had all ached in the best of ways, laughing and tangled together on the floor in a tired-but-gleeful dogpile.

It would have been an absolutely perfect night, actually, if Davy hadn't broken out a couple of bottles of white wine.

"Aren't you supposed to toast with red wine," Mike drawled breathlessly as he detangled himself from Peter's legs and went to help their English bandmate find suitable glasses.

"Can't be having with red wine," Davy muttered, snatching up the corkscrew from where it hung on the lucky bamboo plant. "Makes me queasy."

"I didn't know you could get queasy," Peter said guilelessly. Micky could understand the confusion - he had yet to see Davy get physically sick due to eating or drinking anything. The guy had an iron stomach, which he always said was due to "experience". Micky never pried; he had a feeling he knew what kind of experience Davy was talking about. There wasn't much Micky would turn down when he was starving, either.

It wasn't too far into the second bottle that the trouble started, and Micky really should have seen it coming, but he was too high on their success and too warm from the wine to brace himself. It would turn out (much, much later) that what happened wasn't so bad after all, but at the time, all he could feel was miserable.

Somewhere along the way, he'd ended up draped across the couch. His shirt had long since been confiscated by Peter for use as a drawbridge for his and Davy's imaginary fortress, and he hadn't thought anything of it. Drunken Mike, however, seemed to be thinking all sorts of things of it, because suddenly he was there, crawling up Micky's body clumsily, his special Micky Smile looking a bit lopsided.

"Hey, baby," he slurred, fingers wandering up Micky's abs and across his ribs.

Micky squirmed a bit. There was something he was supposed to remember when Mike got drunk, wasn't there? But, oh, his roommate was nibbling on his collarbone, and his thumbs were tracing wonderful little circles around his nipples, and was that a pistol in Mike's pocket or- no. No, definitely not a pistol.

But he wasn't supposed to be sliding his hands into Mike's back pockets, was he? Or hooking one leg around Mike's, or arching up to press their bodies together so very perfectly. He was supposed to be doing something else, and he would do, as soon as he could remember what it was.

"Mmm...not gonna tell me no this time?" his Cowboy whispered against his neck.

Oh.

Oh!

"Ahhhaha," Micky stuttered, wriggling until he could get his hands against Mike's chest. Now, he just needed to push.

Now.

...

Now.

Oh, for - screwing his eyes shut, he shoved until Mike was sitting up, Micky's legs still pinned at the knee beneath him, but at least he wasn't plastered all over him.

"Right, okay, we've talked about this, Mike. Not when we're both drunk, right?"

Mike wilted pathetically, and Micky did his best not to reach out and cuddle him. He looked so disappointed, and not even a completely-let-down sort of disappointed. That would have been better. No, this was an I-was-expecting-it-but-it-still-hurts disappointed, the kind that really stings, because it's confirming something you knew, but didn't want to believe. It made Micky sad, but it also made him mad, even if he wasn't sure who to be mad at.

Mike was mumbling apologies again, sounding just as contrite as the last time, and Micky melted inside.

'None of that, Dolenz. Don't fall for his big, soft eyes and his pink, soft pout and his smoky, soft voice and...and...nnf.'

Leaning forward awkwardly, Micky caught Mike by the back of the neck and pulled him closer. "Just this once," he said softly. "Just one kiss, and then you go to bed and sleep it off."

Mike's smile was precious just then, shy and sweet, and Micky felt it tingling all the way to his toes. Either that, or the weight of his bandmate was cutting off the circulation to his feet. It was anyone's guess.

Long, pale fingers curled against his bare chest, catching at his collarbone lightly as he tugged Mike closer, brushing their lips together. His Cowboy's sudden intake of breath sent a shiver of satisfaction down Micky's spine, and he pressed on, kissing Mike firmly.

If it was going to be their last kiss (he had no way of knowing - Mike might never get drunk again, so any one could be the last one), he was going to make it a good one. He put everything into it - months of frustrated longing and all the sappy, shmoopy feelings that had been blossoming in his much-disused heart like so many strangling weeds. It was soft and hard and bittersweet, passionate with just a hint of teeth, but that was Micky, and if Mike ever decided he wanted to give this a go sober, he'd need to know what he'd be asking for.

It was an awkward kiss, too, but that was hardly surprising - this whole situation was getting to be so awkward, it was almost unbearable. It only made sense that this kiss would be just as uncomfortable. Micky was leaning forward as best he could without being able to move his legs, and he could feel the strain in his hips already. Mike was still sitting on his knees, which meant he had to curl forward. His back was probably not thanking him for that, but he didn't seem to be paying much attention to it - he was too busy sliding his hands up Micky's neck to cup his face far too carefully for Micky's poor, dusty heart to take.

'Pulling away would be a good idea, Mick. Like...now. Or now. Now.'

But he didn't pull away. Instead, he let out a ridiculously girly sigh, slipping the fingers of his free hand up Mike's shirt, tracing his name all over his Cowboy's ribs. Mike's breath stuttered, and he squirmed a bit, breaking the kiss and pressing his face into Micky's shoulder.

"Tickles" he breathed, his lips dragging across Micky's skin deliciously.

Micky blinked at the far wall, gasping for air and trying to pull the threads of his sanity back together. He'd said only one kiss, after all, and he'd meant it. Never mind the almost-painful desire to pull Mike in for another, to pull him down onto the couch, to pull off his clothes and-

Mike was snoring.

Pushing aside the inevitable and most unwelcome flashback to their very first encounter, Micky sighed. He wriggled until he was no longer pinned beneath the passed-out musician, then did his best to rearrange Mike's gangly limbs so that they weren't hanging off the couch.

"Sometimes I think you're more trouble than you're worth," Micky grumbled as he brushed Mike's hair out of his face. He thought it a lot, but he never really believed it.

Suddenly, he became aware that someone was holding a blanket up in front of his face.

Icy fear flooded Micky's veins as he turned to look Davy in the eyes. Of course he'd seen everything, he'd been right in the room. How the hell had Micky forgotten that their housemates were still there? How had he gotten so careless? He was really going to get punched in the face this time.

But Davy didn't look like he was on the verge of a homicidal, homophobic rage. Not that Micky really thought Davy was so narrow-minded a person, but he was fairly uncomfortable with the idea of guy-on-guy action, or so Micky had inferred from the few times they'd talked about it. He didn't think Davy was about to try to drown him in holy water or burn him at the stake or anything, but he could definitely see their interactions becoming even more strained.

"Uh..."

"He'll get cold if you just leave him down here," Davy said softly, eyes dark and honest. He was frowning, but not angrily or in disgust. Rather, he looked confused and sad, and Micky looked away.

"Yeah, thanks," he mumbled, taking the blanket and draping it over Mike's limp form. He stood back, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to think of something to say.

Davy beat him to it. "You know he fancies you, yeah?" Micky stared at him, and he shrugged. "Not that he's ever said, but you can kind of tell, y'know?"

Huffing a humorless laugh, Micky crossed his arms. "Doesn't really do me a lot of good."

"Why not?" Davy, bless him, looked nine kinds of uncomfortable, but he pressed on. "I mean, he likes you, you like him - and, yeah, that's not even a question - so what's the problem?"

Micky regarded Davy contemplatively. The small man had never really made any bones about the fact that homosexuality made him uncomfortable. It wasn't even a 'gays are unnatural, ew, burn in hell' kind of uncomfortable. Something about it just made Davy uneasy. It might have bothered or offended Micky more, but Davy was Davy. The guy didn't shy away from his flaws, he accepted them, and if they were harmful, he did his best to change them. It gave Micky and odd sort of respect for him, because Davy was so honest about it, and so earnest in his efforts to change, which couldn't be said for most people.

"Actually, Micky's in love with Mike," Peter piped up from inside the blanket fortress he and Davy had constructed.

Davy's eyebrows shot up until they'd disappeared beneath his hair, and if Micky had been less tipsy, he might have laughed it off or protested. But he was drunk, and sore, and tired, and a bit heartbroken, so instead, he crawled into the blanket fortress and laid down with his head in Peter's lap.

Following him in, Davy tugged their makeshift walls shut and sat crosslegged facing Peter. He propped his chin up on his fist, fingers of his other hand tapping out 'Funny Honey' on his knee.

"So, you're in love with Mike," he murmured, almost to himself.

Micky groaned, covering his face with his hands. "Yeeeessssss. Stupidly, ridiculously, completely in love with the bastard. God, I'm so fucked."

"Or not fucked," Peter said absently, brushing his fingers through Micky's hair, "which is kind of the problem."

Groaning again, Micky turned and wrapped his arms around Peter's waist, pressing his face against his best friend's stomach. "Not helping, Pete," he whined into the blonde's shirt.

"Sorry."

They sat like that for a bit, until Micky had nearly fallen asleep to Peter's comforting petting, when Davy spoke up again.

"Right. Okay. I'll need to hear the whole story if we're gonna work this out."

Micky rolled over, one hand curling around Peter's knee, the other resting under his head, and blinked at his British friend. The man was watching him carefully, hands folded as if in prayer and pressed to his lips. He looked thoughtful, and determined, and for a long moment, Micky was stunned speechless.

"Huh?" was about as articulate a response as he could manage, but Davy seemed to understand.

"Well," he began, shifting a bit, "things can't go on like this. Mike's miserable, you're perhaps even more miserable, and if you two are miserable, it probably won't be long before we're all miserable. I mean, we're not just four strangers who work together, you know? We live together. We're friends," he said with the usual wide-eyed sincerity Micky had come to expect from Davy. "More than that, we're sort of like brothers. At least, that's how I feel," he finished quietly, looking away briefly.

"Yeah," Peter agreed, thumping Micky on the shoulder lightly. "We're like a family, right? A real family that sticks together. So we have to make this right, because I really like having a real family again."

Davy hid his face behind his clenched hands for a moment, but Micky could see the edges of a shaky smile peeking out. He could feel his own face being stretched by a grin, and he pressed his forehead to the hand clasping Peter's knee, his throat tight with emotion.

Peter grasped Micky's shoulder tightly. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No, Pete," Davy said thickly, clearing his throat. "No."

Sighing in relief, Peter brought them back around to the issue at hand. "So." Poking at Micky's shoulder until the brunette looked up at him, he grinned. "What's the story, morning glory?"

"Yeah, the whole thing," Davy added, looking up at them again. "From the beginning."

Micky sighed, staring at the bottom of the kitchen table, and clasped his hands over his stomach.

"Well...it definitely started at this club called Hurricane. It's, uh...it's a club for people who, er..." he glanced at Davy, but the smaller man was already nodding.

"I know the place."

Micky blinked. Davy shrugged. Peter grinned.

"Right," Micky said eventually. "Anyway. I was dancing, up on the platform, when this guy walks in..."

:::

A/N - ::GASP:: I FINISHED IT. chapter was way more involved than it was meant to be. I swear! This was supposed to be a collection of little drabbles about Mike getting handsy with Micky when he's drunk. WHAT HAVE I DONE.  
Not sure when the next chapter will be out, but we're closing in on the happy ending...or are we?  
Mwahahahaha.  
Haha.  
Anyway. Since I have such limited internet access for the next week or so, I probably won't get much posted, but I should get a whole lot written! I'm already nearly done with that New Years' ficlet I started on the 31st, and I'm about to start on the third chapter of For What We Could Become.  
Welp...hope you enjoyed this train-wreck of emotion! As always, I would love any concrit y'all have to offer.


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